Quiet in the Dust
by SpectacularlyIgnorant
Summary: It was more comfortable there, and quiet; here it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming his agony into the dust.


Dust filled John's lungs and stung his eyes. His ears were ringing from the explosion and behind his now closed lids he could still see the blinding light burning into his vision, replaying the moment over and over. Even though he was effectively blind and deaf and could hardly breath, he struggled to his feet and started to shout. A strangled sound came out of his mouth and he began to cough violently, expelling as much dust from his lungs as he could.

When the coughs quieted and his eyes finally seemed to clear, he straightened and looked around. There was a strange mixture of fire and water surrounding him. The tile floor was slick with pool water, and small fires were growing steadily larger around him. Bits of the ceiling were still raining down, cracking the tile floor and splashing into the pool. The dust was more settled now, and he could almost breath again. He opened his mouth.

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, picking his way over the pieces of concrete that littered the ground. He almost slipped on the wet floor but managed to regain his balance. "Sherlock!" he yelled again, more desperately this time. There was still no reply.

Through the dust John caught sight of a single leather shoe poking out from under a mess of rubble. He sprinted over and started to pull apart the pile, not caring that his hands were quickly becoming bruised and bloody. He worked for what seemed like hours, terrified of what he would find beneath but for all the world unable to stop. Finally he cleared enough debris away to see the dust covered and blood soaked clothes – a Westwood suit. He swore in frustration jumped back to his feet. Sherlock was here somewhere. He needed to find him. Had to find him.

He spun on the spot, searching through the gloom, aided by the fires and the flickering lights that had miraculously not gone completely out. He could feel his own pulse pounding in his ears, consuming the still lingering ringing, and he knew it was much too fast and becoming faster. He saw nothing, but as he squinted through the gloom he just barely heard a very small voice over the steadily increasing pounding in his chest.

"John." It was a barely conscious, desperate call; slurred and much too soft.

"Sherlock?" John replied as loudly as he could manage. He swept his vision around, trying to determine where the call had originated.

"John." It was even quieter this time. John wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening with all his might. Now that he had been concentrating, he could tell Sherlock was somewhere behind him. He tripped over some of the rubble he'd pulled off Moriarty and nearly fell into the pool. He righted himself and then climbed over a small mountain of ceiling pieces to where he thought Sherlock must be.

It was darker here. The lights in this end of the pool had all gone out; all he could see were the curtains lining the walls and the scattered pieces of rubble that had been thrown from the epicenter of the explosion, all of it disappearing into darkness. Even though he could see no sign of his flatmate, he kicked his way out of the mound of debris and walked into the black.

He stood for a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust. Slowly, out of the shadows, a figure materialized. He knew at once that the figure was Sherlock, and he was lying with his back to the floor. He was still. Unnaturally still. John's heart seemed to stop mid-beat. All sounds leeched out of the world and he was enveloped in a terrifying silence.

He ran forward and slid on his knees to Sherlock's side, not noticing the sharp pieces of tile and concrete that tore through his trousers and cut into his legs. It was only now, when he was kneeling directly over Sherlock, that he could see the bloom of red on his chest and the sticky pool that surrounded him.

John looked down in horror and saw the blood soaking into his trousers. The metallic smell of Sherlock's spilled blood hit him and he reeled, his eyes stinging. It was a familiar smell, one he'd encountered so many times before, but for the first time in many, many years it made him want to vomit.

"Sherlock," he whispered, choking on his own words. He pressed two minutely shaking fingers to Sherlock's neck and felt for his pulse. It was weak. He ripped a strip from his shirt and pressed it to the wound on Sherlock's chest, gasping as the warm blood seeped around his fingers. He knew it would do little good but he had to do something.

"John." It was the same small voice, barely audible even as John sat next to him. Sherlock's eyes were closed and John wasn't even sure if he knew he was there.

"Sherlock, I'm here," he said insistently. He didn't know if Sherlock could hear him, either. "I'm here, Sherlock. Can you hear me? I'm here. I'm here." When no reply came he gathered Sherlock's head into his lap and started to stroke his free hand through the dark curls, barely noticing the blood that gathered on his fingers. His eyes were still stinging; he could feel trails of wetness on his face. He wanted to scream. "Sherlock, please say something," he begged.

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly, laboriously. He looked up at John through the blur of tears of pain and opened his mouth. He tried to speak but all that he managed was a strangled moan. He was shaking.

John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's chest, drawing away the blood-soaked fabric as he did so and letting it fall to the ground into the larger pool of blood. There was no point. The wound's position in relation to Sherlock's ribs meant it was nearly impossible to control the bleeding, and if he kept trying he could make things worse. Instead he cupped both hands around Sherlock's face and drew his drifting eyes back up. "Sherlock, keep looking at me. Look at my face."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John with great difficulty. He seemed to be drifting in and out of focus, and it would be so much more comfortable just to let his eyelids fall shut. In fact, the only reason he'd opened them at all was because he'd heard the distant echo of John's voice drawing him back from the blackness. It was more comfortable there, and quiet; here it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming his agony into the dust.

John knew someone had to be coming. There was no way a giant explosion and a blown out roof could be ignored, not even when it was the middle of the night. There would be paramedics coming, and they would have the equipment to keep Sherlock alive long enough to get to a hospital. But they needed to get here soon or it would be too late.

Too late. Too late. The words reverberated around John's mind and burrowed painfully into his skull. Without really wanting to, he could see clearly a future spent with Sherlock: the midnight chases, the half-eaten dinners abandoned for cases, the interjection of Sherlock's comments into every telly show he ever tried to watch. In his mind he watched hundreds of mornings waking up to find Sherlock draped across the sofa, having passed out from exhaustion sometime during the night. He could smell the tea, feel the rising steam, the burning heat on his fingers of the mug he set down for Sherlock when he inevitably awoke to the pop of the toaster. He could feel the simple pleasure of Sherlock's warmth next to him in the cabs, the proof and the knowledge that he was there without even having to look. He thought one day, perhaps, he could see something more. Closer. But he'd never even tried. And now the pool of Sherlock's blood was growing steadily larger and a grey fog was growing in his eyes and it was too late. Too late.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock whispered, his words slurred.

John's stomach clenched to see how much effort it had obviously taken just to manage those three words. He shook his head vigorously, and continued to stroke his hands through Sherlock's hair. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"John, I need to tell you something," Sherlock murmured, gasping with pain. His eyes fluttered as he tried to keep them open. He could feel the blood surging from him as it leaked onto the floor and mixed with the pool water, and he knew his heart was slowing. Even though he'd fought his way out of the blackness he knew it was still waiting for him, crouching quietly behind the lids of his eyes. Slowly it approached, numbing his mind to a peaceful drone of white noise. Only the pain cut through the constant presence with its sharp, agonizing flashes of red.

Tears started to leak down John's cheeks and onto Sherlock's face. Neither noticed them. "You can tell me once the paramedics get here, alright?"

Sherlock reached a shaking arm up to clasp his bloodstained hand to John's face, but it was so very far away and he settled with clutching weakly to John's forearm. "Very important, have to tell you now." Before he could finish, the blackness behind his eyelids grabbed ahold of him and started to drag him forcefully down, down, into the comfortable depths.

"Sherlock," John cried urgently, "Sherlock, do not close your eyes. Keep looking at my face. Describe my eyes, if you have to."

Sherlock swam back up out of the droning and he was again in the pool, his head still cradled in John's lap. Suddenly John's words registered and he laughed, a strange sound that echoed in the still dusty air. "John, I don't need my eyes open to describe what yours look like."

John laughed a little, but somewhere on the way out it became a sob. He locked eyes with Sherlock and saw fear behind the gathering fog. He would have done anything in that moment to take it away. "They'll be here any minute, I swear, just keep looking at me."

Sherlock's eyelids were closing of their own accord. He didn't seem able to force them open anymore, and the black was pulling too strongly now. He couldn't fight it, but he urgently needed to tell John, only John was being ripped away and Sherlock was falling, being dragged away by a heavy weight. He couldn't see John anymore, but he knew he was still there, just very far away.

"Sherlock!" John was practically shouting now. "Sherlock, don't you dare close your eyes!"

Sherlock was warm and comfortable. There was no more pain, and he knew John was still there, somewhere. He smiled, even as the droning crashed over him like a wave at sea. "John, I l-" he began, but he was cut off by the dark, and it engulfed him.

No more sound came from John's mouth. Or perhaps it was still there, but he simply couldn't hear it. In the pressing silence his fingers searched the spot where Sherlock's pulse should have been, but they found nothing. He gaped, numb, falling back onto his heels with a heavy thud. His hands were still on Sherlock's face, but that wasn't enough, could never be enough. Would never be enough.

He couldn't see anymore. His eyes were blinded with tears. He heard only silence. All he was aware of was the smell of blood, the dust in his lungs, and the lifeless weight in his lap. He pulled Sherlock's body closer and clutched his arms around him, burying his face into the blood soaked curls as he sobbed so hard he thought he would only stop when his body was dry.

As the sirens approached and people started to surround him, trying to take Sherlock away, trying to convince John to let him go, John didn't even realize they were there. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing.

He was stranded in the dust and the absolute silence. He was alone.


End file.
